As they rode into the cantonment of the troops two strange officers and two white women rose from before the colonel’s tent, the men saluting and the women waving a smiling greeting to the commandant.
Colonel Vivier turned his command over to his major and trotted forward to greet the newcomers — they were two of the officers and their wives who had been on leave when the regiment left Algiers and had just rejoined after a visit in Paris.
It was Azîz custom to accompany Marie to her father’s tent, where, after she had dismounted, he took her horse and led it to the picket line, turning it over there to a trooper. Now as he dismounted and assisted the girl to the ground he saw the eyes of the strangers upon him, and Marie seeing their questioning looks hastened to introduce him.
As soon as possible he withdrew with the horses; and after he had gone many were the questions that were asked about him, for his remarkable physique, which not even the clothing of civilization could entirely hide, and his handsome face had awakened the curiosity of the two women.
One of them, a Madam Semeler, seemed rather shocked at the idea of the apparent familiarity between the stranger and the colonel’s daughter; and as she was the wife of Vivier’s senior captain and a woman who had taken it upon herself to assume toward Marie the responsibilities of her dead mother, she lost no time in making it quite plain that she disapproved of the friendly relations that had sprung up between the friendless outcast and the colonel’s family.
She did not say much before Marie, but at the first opportunity she drew Vivier to one side and poured her fears into his ear. At first the colonel laughed at her; but finally, backed by information that she had evidently gained from officers who had been in camp when they arrived and before the colonel and his detachment had returned from his visit to Sheik Ali-Es-Hadji, she succeeded in arousing the good man’s doubts, at least as to the propriety of his daughter’s continued unchaperoned association with the lion-man.
Azîz and Marie, ignorant of the gossip the meddling woman had initiated, had strolled down to the beach after the evening meal, where they stood watching the surf and admiring the graceful play of the porpoises as they rose slowly and majestically above the surface.
For some time neither had spoken, when, quite irrelevantly, Marie returned to the subject which their return to camp earlier in the day had interrupted.
“I was just thinking,” she said, “how strange it is that so beautiful a girl as the one we saw at Ali-Es-Hadji’s this morning should not be married - these Arab girls are usually betrothed at a very early age, and one of her beauty cannot fail having many admirers.”
“How do you know she is not married?” asked Azîz.
“Her eyebrows are not connected,” replied Marie, “and among all the tribes with whose customs I am familiar the connecting of the eyebrows by a straight line is a certain indication of wifehood.”
Azîz thought for a long time after this. He was trying to reconcile this information with the word that the Arab horseman had brought to him out upon the desert that day that his life had been turned from a song into a dirge.
Marie, too, was musing. She had accidentally overheard some of Madam Semeler’s conversation with the wife of another officer, and with sudden awakened loyalty toward Azîz she had determined to discover all that she might which could prove that he was the gentleman she, in her generous heart, felt him to be. If she could but find some clue to his identity! She did not for a moment mistrust him or the strange story that he had told, though her father had always been rather skeptical, attributing the tale to some mental defect superinduced by the dangers and suffering to which the youth must have been exposed during his lonely life among the beasts.
“Azîz,” she said at last, “have you no recollection of any other name than that which you now bear?”
“None,” he replied.
“Who gave you that name?” she continued. “It must have been your mother, for none but a mother would have bestowed it upon you — unless,” and she smiled, “you have had a sweetheart. And if your mother gave it to you, you must remember her or you would not remember the name. Tell me, can’t you recall your mother or your father?”
“Why could my name have been given me only by my mother — or my sweetheart?” asked the lion-man, and his heart beat strong within his breast as he awaited her reply.
“Can it be that you don’t know its meaning?” asked Marie.
“I don’t know,” he replied, “that it means any more than any other name - it merely is useful to distinguish me from others. Has it any special meaning, then?”
Marie laughed. “And you really don’t know the meaning of Azîz?” she asked
“No, I don’t,” replied the youth. “Tell me — what does it signify?”
“In Arabic, Azîz,” explained Marie, “your name means ‘beloved’.”
CHAPTER 17
The night that William Wesl waited in the palace gardens to deliver a letter to a mysterious stranger, Prince Ferdinand spent at the hunting lodge playing contract with several officers of the Guard, among whom were two who had never been invited to one of the Prince’s private gatherings before. These two were proteges of General Count Sarnya, and quite generally suspected in court circles of being members of his feared secret police.
Ferdinand was nervous and irritable all during the evening, jumping at the slightest sound. He played atrociously, which was unusual for Ferdinand, paying no attention to discards and bidding recklessly on four card suits after denial by his partner. He lost heavily and drank even more heavily. When the telephone rang between one-thirty and two, while he was making for the next hand, he turned very white and dropped the deck to the floor
* * * * *
King Otto retired at a quarter before one; by one o’clock he was asleep. At twenty-nine minutes after one a man entered his room. He stood listening for thirty seconds; then he approached the bed where the King lay, passing around the foot of the bed and standing beside it between the bed and the window. The man made scarcely any noise; but the King, who was a light sleeper, awakened. He opened his eyes to see a man standing over him. In the dim light, he could see that the man was in uniform and wore white gloves. The King sat up.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
For answer, the man shot him twice through the heart; then he tossed the pistol out of the window, and ran from the room through the King’s study.
Captain Carlyn, Officer of the Guard, was the first man into the King’s bedroom after the shots were fired. He saw the King lying with his head over the side of the bed, but he paid no attention to the King. Instead he ran directly to the open window, drawing his service pistol. Below him, between the palace and the fountain, he saw a shadowy figure. Captain Carlyn, asking no question, giving no warning, immediately opened fire.
William Wesl, surprised, terrified, hesitated a moment; then turned and fled. The Officer of the Guard emptied his pistol at the fleeing figure. The last shot struck William in the left shoulder, the bullet penetrating his heart. Armed men, pouring into the gardens from the palace and gate found a little figure slumped in death beside the fountain. They also found a pistol lying beneath the bedroom window of the murdered king, and when they searched William’s body, they found a sealed note, typewritten, which read, “I did this because I hate kings. I had no confederates nor accomplices.”
“He was very clever,” said one of the officers who investigated the assassination. “There were no fingerprints on the pistol, because he wore gloves. If he had escaped by the postern gate, he might never have been apprehended. It was only Captain Carlyn’s quick wit and marksmanship that avenged the King.”
The pistol they found was a .32 caliber automatic. The empty shells on the floor of the King’s bedroom and the bullets in his heart were also .32 caliber. The service pistol of the Officer of the Guard was a .45 caliber.
It was a .45 caliber bullet that had killed William Wesl. All these things came out at the inquest; but when
they traced the pistol by its serial number, police records showed that it had been purchased by a Lieutenant Hans de Groot of the 10th Regiment of Cavalry, which looked pretty bad for Hans for a short time, until his testimony that the pistol had been stolen from his quarters several weeks before was substantiated by the testimony of Captain Carlyn, who stated that he was a close friend of Lieutenant de Groot and distinctly recalled that the latter had told him at the time of the theft of his pistol.
The authorities were delighted that the affair had been cleared up so easily, and relieved to know that it had been the work of a weak-minded individual and not the outcome of a Terrorist plot; so everyone was happy except the cobbler’s pretty daughter.
The question as to how the assassin gained entrance to the palace and penetrated to the King’s bedroom without being seen, remained an unsolved mystery, as did the fact that he had jumped from a second-story window onto turf without leaving any imprint on the ground; but of course Captain Carlyn, who, as Officer of the Guard, made the initial investigation did the best that he could under the circumstances; and that is all that should be expected of anyone.
* * * * *
When the telephone rang at the hunting lodge between one-thirty and two that morning, and the Crown Prince dropped the cards on the floor, an aide picked up the telephone receiver and took the message. He was very white as he hung up and turned toward the little company of men; then he stood up very straight and clicked his heels together.
“The King is dead,” he said. “Long live the King!”
Otto was given a most impressive funeral. Two kings walked behind the flag-draped gun carriage that bore the body of the dead monarch — his son and the father of Queen Maria — and there were many princes and dignitaries of the state and church and a great cortege of armed troops. The streets were lined with lesser people, some of whom sat on the curbs and ate their lunches from paper bags. There was a holiday air that belied the bier on the gun carriage and the lugubrious music of the military bands. The people had come to look and enjoy, not to mourn. They might have been congregating for an Iowa picnic in Sycamore Grove, but for time and place.
As it must to all men, death had come to Otto; and nobody gave a damn.
CHAPTER 18
Two things Aziz had learned within the course of a very few minutes — two things that might mean to him all the difference in the world between misery and happiness.
He could scarcely wait to learn the truth. It seemed that Marie would never be done looking at the silly sea — the happy, laughing, dancing sea. A moment before it had been a sad and weeping sea.
But at last the French girl turned back toward the father’s tent. The newcomers were within; so the lion-man begged off when Marie urged him to join them, and bidding the girl good-night hastened to his own tent.
His plans were made. He would ride that night, fast and furious, to the douar of Sheik Ali-Es-Hadji. He would know the truth. Evidently there had been a great mistake — the lone horseman had brought him a lie instead of the truth.
He had buckled on his revolver, and seized his rifle, and was on the point of hurrying down to the picket line to saddle his horse, when it suddenly occurred to him that the horse, the accouterments, the clothes that he wore even, were his only through the courtesy of Colonel Vivier — it would never do to ride away at night without making some sort of explanation to his host and patron.
So instead of going to the picket line he hastened off in the direction of Vivier’s tent, but he never entered it, for at the threshold he heard his own name upon the lips of one within. Such knowledge of the niceties of civilized conduct as one might derive from a lifetime of association with a black-maned lion was Azîz’s. To this, of course, there had been added that which he had been able to absorb from Nakhla and Marie, but at that he did not possess sufficient to deter him from untroubled listening to that which went on beyond the frail canvas wall.
“What do you know of this Azîz person, anyway, Marie?” a woman’s voice was saying. “For aught you or the colonel know he is an escaped convict, hiding in the desert. A forger, maybe; or a murderer, even.”
“Poof! Helen,” came the colonel’s voice. “Look at the man’s eyes — they’re honest to the bottom of them and clean. I tell you Azîz is all right.”
“That he is,” exclaimed Marie.
“Well,” continued the woman’s voice, in that exasperating air of superior finality that brooks no contrary opinion, “well, she is your daughter, of course. Colonel Vivier; but I loved her poor mother, and I feel that it is my duty to do my poor best to preserve Marie from such a misalliance.”
“Misalliance!” gasped Colonel Vivier, coming half to his feet. “Misalliance? Mon Dieu! Do you think that Marie intends wedding this fellow!” and he glanced quickly toward his daughter.
Azîz could hear through the canvas wall but through it he could not see what Colonel Vivier saw — a sudden scarlet flush suffuse the face of the French girl.
“It has reached a point,” broke in the woman’s voice, “where the whole regiment is talking about it — and talking about little else.”
“Madam Semeler!” cried Marie, reproachfully, but she got no further.
“Misalliance!” almost shouted Colonel Vivier. “How dare any member of my regiment link the name of their colonel’s daughter with that of an outcast - a waif — an unknown, nameless fellow who is but a grade above a servant in my household! It is outrageous. Do you think for a moment that the daughter of the house of Vivier — a descendant of the famous Count de Vivier — could so degrade herself as to entertain such an idea! We have befriended the poor devil — that is all. We know nothing about him, except that he does not presume upon our friendship,” and he looked meaningfully at Madam Semeler. “Has he ever presumed, Marie,” he asked, turning toward his daughter, “to assume toward you anything more than the quasi-menial position he holds?”
Azîz did not linger to hear more. He had heard quite enough. There was no rancor in his heart toward Vivier. Something told him that the man had spoken honestly and that he still was what Azîz had always thought - his best friend; but the lion-man’s eyes had been opened to a new thread in the intricate human fabric called civilized society, to an understanding of his place in that society.
Evidently, regardless of character and deportment, all men were not equal. There seemed to be an indefinable something which made Colonel Vivier one sort of person and Azîz another. Azîz was of a lower order — he was of the “servant” class — he could never hope to associate upon a plane of perfect equality with these superior beings. Of course, he did not understand it at all — all that he knew was something rose up within him in rebellion - but greater even than this was a feeling of bitter humiliation and a poignant hurt that depressed him.
If he was not good enough for Marie Vivier, then most certainly he could never hope to aspire to so radiant a thing as Nakhla. He was moving back toward his tent as these dismal thoughts passed through his mind. Slowly he entered his little canvas home. Slowly and deliberately he removed every article of clothing and equipment that had been furnished him by Colonel Vivier.
At last he stood naked except for his loin cloth and bandoleer. In his belt were the knife and revolver he had taken from the marauder chieftain. In his right hand the rifle that had belonged to the traitorous servant of Marie. He would go away, nor would he take aught that might obligate him in any way to these superior people who considered him so far beneath them.
The sentries knew him for a favored friend of their colonel; so he might easily have passed them clothed in khaki, but whether or not they would permit him to go forth in his nakedness he did not know, for their suspicions might be aroused, in which event they would report the matter to their commandant before they allowed him to pass.
Azîz did not care to be subjected to anything of the sort. He was free. No one could detain him. He could come and go as he saw fit. And so it was that a wild beast, silent and stealthy as
the lion that had trained him, passed out of the camp of the French soldiers so close to a sentry that the fellow might have touched it with his bayonet had he known of its presence.
Straight back toward his savage lair he trotted through the dark and moonless night; but as he went, he thought; and the more he thought the more impossible it seemed to him that he could live without Nakhla. Human companionship had grown to mean a great deal more to him than he could possibly imagine, and the personification of humanity was to him the wondrous daughter of Sheik Ali-Es-Hadji. Nor had the lion-man’s perspicacity been one whit at fault in its estimate of the bronze maid of the desert. Far above the average of her sisters, was Nakhla — not only in personal beauty, but in virtue, goodness, character and intelligence as well. A girl in a thousand, was she — yes, in ten thousand, in whom race or complexion might bear no slightest place in the estimate that was her due. Nakhla of the Sahara was a daughter of the races.
And something of all this found lodgment that night in the mind of Azîz, so that the lure of this perfect maid carried him past the lair of his savage mates — on and upward through the Stygian blackness of the canyon toward the pass that leads eastward out into the Sahara.
Thoughtless of self, the man forged ahead. The two great bodies lying in the brush close beside the watering place above the den went all unnoticed. The savage, flaming eyes caught no answering spark from the introspective orbs of the lion-man. Azîz was too deeply engrossed in what was transpiring within his own handsome head to note the sudden movement of two soft-footed creatures close behind him as he passed through the ford to the opposite side of the river where the traveling was better.
But he was suddenly brought to consciousness of things less remote by the hurtling of two giant bodies against him, bodies that hurled him forward upon his face beneath their great weight. However far his thoughts may have been wandering they returned with lightning-like rapidity to the comprehension that two lions were upon him.
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 494